Rainy Afternoon

            Today my being, as sometimes happens, is pushed towards some feat that I cannot formulate. It comes with slow longing, like a tide advancing upon my emotions. It is the rain coming from a sky that does not end, it is the earthworms poking their heads out of the earth. I need to create. Every sentence I have written, every poem I have unburied within myself, finished and unfinished, piles like fertilizer for the molding of something. But I cannot find a pathway anywhere, only a tiny, insistent movement of the air around me. Where would it have me go?